by Mark Dawson
Elijah’s heart filled with pride. No-one had ever said he was any good at anything. None of his teachers, none of his friends, not even his mum, not really. “Course,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say.
Rutherford put one of his big hands on his shoulder. “Good lad. Thought you’d be up for it. It’s Thursday night. Speak to the fellow who brought you down. Mr Milton. See if he wants to come?”
Elijah thought of Milton. Would he come if he asked him? Elijah was surprised to find that he half hoped that he would. “Aight,” he said. “I’ll tell him about it.”
* * *
31.
MILTON LOOKED at the window of the Sharon’s flat. It was barred but, somehow, it had still been broken. The window faced into the sitting room and a wide, jagged hole had been smashed in the centre. The wind had sucked the curtains out and now they flapped uselessly, snagged on the sharp edges of the glass. Fragments had fallen out onto the walkway and now they crunched underfoot, like ice.
He had called Sharon half an hour earlier to ask after Elijah. She had been upset, barely able to stifle the sobs, and he come straight across. A brick was lying incongruously on the cushion of the sofa, glass splinters sparkling all around it. Someone had pushed it through the glass.
“Just kids mucking about,” Sharon said miserably. “They don’t mean anything by it.”
“Has it happened before?”
She shrugged, a little awkwardly. “Sometimes.”
“You’ll need to get it fixed.”
“I spoke to the council. They say they can’t do it until next week.”
“You can’t leave it like that until then. Let me take care of it.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“It’s not a problem. Simple job. I just need to get some bits and pieces. It’ll take me half an hour.”
She smiled shyly at him. “On one condition––you let me cook you dinner.”
“Deal,” Milton said.
Milton sized up the job and then visited the hardware store in the centre of Hackney to collect the equipment and materials that he would need.
A handful of lazy youngsters had gathered by the time he returned, leaning against the balustrade at the end of the balcony. They stared at him with dull aggression as he set his purchases down and removed his jacket. He unscrewed the cage that contained the metal bars and stood it carefully against the wall. He spread an old sheet on the balcony outside the window and knocked out the largest fragments of glass, using a hammer and chisel to remove the smaller pieces. He chipped out the putty from the groove in the frame and plucked out old glazing sprigs with a pair of pliers. He sanded the rough patches, applied a primer and then filled in the holes and cracks. He kneaded putty into a thin roll and pressed it into the frame, then carefully lowered the new pane of glass into place, pressing carefully so that the putty squeezed out to form a seal. He added new sprigs to hold the glass in place and pressed more putty into the join between the panel and the frame, trimming away the excess with the edge of his chisel. He heaved the metal cage up to the window and screwed it back into place. Finally, he stepped back against the balustrade and admired his handiwork. The job was well done.
“You wasting your time,” one of the kids called over to him. “No-one likes her. She ain’t from round these ends. She should get the hint, innit, go somewhere else?”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Milton said.
“It gonna get broke again, soon as you gone.”
“Leave her alone. Alright?”
“What you gonna do about it, old man?”
All Milton could think about was going over to teach them some manners, but he knew that that would be just be for his own gratification. It would not do Sharon any good. He could not be with her all the time and, as soon as he was gone, she would be punished. It was better to bite his tongue.
The boys stayed for another ten minutes, hooting at him to try and get a response but, when they realised he was ignoring them, they fired off another volley of abuse and slouched all the way down to the bottom of the stairs. Milton watched them go.
It was a little past seven when he had finished with the window to his satisfaction. He tidied away his tools and went inside. The television in the lounge was tuned to the BBC’s news channel. A man in Tottenham had been shot dead by police. The presenter said he was a drug dealer, and that the police were reporting that he had been armed. Milton watched it for a moment, not really paying attention, and then found the remote control and switched it off.
Sharon had pulled the table away from the wall and laid it for dinner. She had prepared a traditional Jamaican dish of mutton curry. Milton helped her to clear the table when they had finished. He took out his cigarettes. “Do you mind?” he asked her.
“What are they?” she said, looking at the unfamiliar black, blue and gold packet.
“Arktika. They’re Russian.”
“I’ve never seen them before. Where do you get them?”
“Internet,” he said. “Every man needs a least one vice.”
“Russian fags?”
“I met a man once, a long time ago. He was Russian. We found ourselves in a spot of bother and these were all we had. Three packets. We made them last four days. I’d developed a bit of a taste for them by the end. Vodka too, but only the good stuff.”
He opened the carton and offered it to Sharon. She took a cigarette and allowed Milton to light it for her. He lit his and watched as she took a deep lungful of smoke, letting it escape from between her lips in a long sigh.
“You’ve been so good to me,” she began after a quiet moment. “I don’t know why.”
Milton inhaled himself, the tobacco crackling as the flame burned higher. “You’ve had some bad luck,” he said. “Things aren’t always fair. You work hard with Elijah, you deserve some help. I’m just glad I can do that.”
“But why me?”
“Why not you?” he retorted. He let the peacefulness fall between them again, his thoughts gently turning on her question. Why her? Had it just been a case of his being there at just the right time, or was there something else, something about Sharon that drew him toward her? Her vulnerability? Her helplessness? Or had he recognised in her some way to make amends for the things that he had done?
The sons that he had orphaned.
The wives that he had widowed.
He didn’t know the answer to that, and he didn’t think it wouldn’t serve to dwell upon it.
He drew down on the cigarette again.
“Can I get you a drink? Don’t have any vodka but I think I have some gin, and some tonic, maybe.”
“I don’t drink any more,” he said. “A glass of water is fine.”
She went through into the kitchen. Milton stood alone in the sitting room and examined it more carefully than he had before. He noticed the small details that Sharon had included in an attempt to make the blandly square box more homely: the embroidered cushions on the sofa; the box of second-hand children’s toys pushed against the wall; the Ikea curtains that hid the bars on the windows outside. He went over to the sideboard. Sharon had arranged a collection of framed pictures of her children, the two boys at various stages of their lives. He picked one up and studied it; it was a professional shot, the sort that could be bought cheaply in malls, with Sharon pictured on a chair with the children arranged around her. Milton guessed it was taken four or five years ago. Sharon’s hair was cut in a different shape and her face was absent the perpetual frown of worry that must have sunk across it in the interim. Elijah was a sweet-looking ten year old, chubby, beaming a happy smile and without the wariness in his eyes. His older brother, Jules, looked very much like him. He had an open, honest face. He must have been the same age as Elijah was now. There was nothing to suggest a predisposition towards self-destruction but Milton guessed that he must already have started along the path that would eventually lead him to ruin.
Sharon emerged from the kitchen with two glasses
in her hands. “My boys,” she said simply. “I failed with Jules. I’m not going to let the same thing happen to Elijah.”
“You won’t.”
She smiled sadly, resting both glasses on the table. Milton watched as a single tear rolled slowly down her cheek and he went to her, drawing her into his body and holding her there, his right hand reaching around to stroke her hair.
She gently pulled back and looked up into his face. Her eyes were wet and bright. Milton pushed her against the wall and kissed her, hard, on the mouth. She pulled away and Milton took a step back to give her room. “I’m sorry,” he said, but her hands came up, the fingers circling his wrists, and she drew him back towards her until their bodies touched. She moved his hands downwards until they were around her slender waist and angled her head to kiss him, her mouth open hungrily. Milton embraced her passionately, his tongue forcing her teeth apart, her own tongue working shyly at first and then more passionately. Milton pulled her even more tightly into his body, crushing her breasts against his chest. She gasped, disengaging her mouth and pressing her cheek against his, her mouth nuzzling his neck. They stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard, Milton feeling her hard breasts against his sternum, his hands sliding down into the small of her back.
She leant back a little so that she could look up into his face. She gently brushed aside the lock of black hair that had fallen across his damp forehead. Her hand slid into his, the fingers interlacing, and then she pulled him after her, leading the way across the sitting room to the door that led to her bedroom.
* * *
32.
ELIJAH AWOKE AT EIGHT, just as usual, and got straight out of bed. His body felt sore from exercise but it was a good pain, a steady ache that told him he had worked hard. He thought of his muscles, the little tears and rips that would regenerate and thicken, making him stronger. He thought of Pinky, and the session in the ring. He had dreamt about that in the night, replaying the two rounds over and over again. It was one of those good dreams where it made him feel happy at the end, not the nightmares that he usually had. He thought of the boys who had been watching. “He banged Pinky out,” one of them called, and there had been something different in the way that he looked at him, the way that they all looked at him. He felt a warmth in his chest as he thought about it again.
He took off his shirt, opened his cupboard door and looked at his torso in the full-length mirror. He was lean and strong, the muscles in his stomach starting to develop, his arms thickening, his shoulders growing heavier. His puppy fat was disappearing. He knew from the few pictures he had found in his mother’s room that his father had been a big man, powerfully built, and he had always hoped that he might inherit that from him. He wanted to be like Rutherford. A man that size, who was going to mess around with him?
He found a clean t-shirt and pulled on his jeans. He threw his duvet back across his bed, straightened it out and went into the sitting room. It was empty. That was strange; his mother was normally up well before him, preparing his breakfast before she went off to work.
“Mums,” he called.
There was no reply.
He went into the kitchen and poured himself an orange juice. He went and stood before the door to her bedroom. It was closed.
“Mums,” he said again, “I can’t find my iPod. You awake?”
He heard the sound of hasty movement from inside and, without thinking, reached for the door handle and opened it. His mother was half out of bed, fastening the belt of her dressing gown around her waist. She was not alone. Milton was sitting in her bed, the covers pulled down to reveal his hard, muscular chest.
Elijah felt his stomach drop away. He felt sick.
“Oh no,” he said.
“Elijah,” his mother said helplessly.
“What? What’s going on?”
“Elijah.”
He backed out of the room.
His mother followed him, stammering something about him needing to be calm, about how he shouldn’t lose his temper, how he should listen, but he hardly heard her. She came into the sitting room as he scrabbled on the floor for the trainers he had left there after he came in last night. Milton came out of the bedroom, his trousers halfway undone and hastily doing up the buttons of his shirt.
“Come on, Elijah,” he said. “Let me talk to you.”
“You said you weren’t like the others.”
“I’m not.”
“I thought you wanted to help me?”
“I do.”
“No you don’t. You just want her to think you do so you can get with her. What’s wrong with me? You must think I’m an idiot. I can’t believe I fell for it.”
“You’re not an idiot, and that’s not how it is. I do want to help you. It’s very important to me. What happens between me and your mum doesn’t make any difference to that.”
“You can fool her if you want, but you ain’t fooling me, not any more.”
He stamped his feet into his trainers and laced them hurriedly.
“Elijah…” Sharon said.
“I’ll see you later, mum.”
She called after him as he slammed the door behind him. He stood on the balcony in the fresh morning air. The kids at the end of the balcony sniggered and, as he turned back, he saw why: someone had sprayed graffiti across the front door and the paint, still wet, said SLUT.
Elijah went across to the boys. Elijah knew them by reputation; they were a year or two older than him with a bit of a reputation, occasionally passing through the Estate to sell Bizness’s gear.
“You think that’s funny?” he said.
“Look at the little chi-chi man,” the oldest of the three said. “Hush your gums, younger, you know it’s true.”
“Wouldn’t be so touchy about it if he didn’t, would he? Your mum’s a grimey skank, bruv, you know she is.”
Elijah was blinded by a sudden, unquenchable flash of anger. He flung his arm out in a powerful right cross, catching the boy flush on the chin. He dropped to the concrete, his head bouncing back off the balustrade, and lay still. He turned to face the other two. They gaped and then, as they saw the ire that had distorted Elijah’s face, they both backed away. Elijah’s fist burned from the impact and, as he opened and closed his hand he saw that his knuckles had been painted with the boy’s blood.
The door to the flat opened behind him. He turned back to see Milton emerging, barefoot. “Elijah,” he called out. “Please––let me talk to you.”
He leapt over the boy and made for the stairs, kicking the door open and taking them two at a time. He was crying by the time he reached the bottom; hot, gasping sobs of disappointment and disenchantment and the sure knowledge that any chance he had of striking out on a different path was gone. He could not trust Milton. He had used him and, like a callow little boy, he had given himself away cheaply and unquestioning. He could not trust him and there was no-one else. He had always known he was alone. This had been just another false hope. He would not fall for them so easily again.
He found his phone in his pocket and swiped through his contacts until he found Bizness’s number.
* * *
33.
POPS DROVE his car into Dalston and parked next to a Turkish restaurant on Kingsland Road. He killed the engine and sat quietly, watching the pedestrians passing next to him. Bizness had called him thirty minutes earlier and told him to come to his studio. He made no mention of Laura, nor did Pops expect him to. He would feel no guilt for what he had done. The way he would see it, he was entitled to take whatever he wanted. A woman was no different to money, time, or possessions. If Bizness wanted it, then it was his.
Elijah was in the passenger seat. Bizness had told him to collect him and bring him along. Pops tried to engage him in conversation when he picked him up but the youngster did not respond. His face was clouded with anger and he was completely closed off. Something had happened to him, that much was obvious.
“Here we are, younger,” he said to him. “I
don’t know what Bizness wants with you, but be careful, alright?”
Elijah grunted, but, other than that, he did not respond.
Pops tried again. “Listen to me, JaJa. You don’t have to do nothing you don’t want to do. Nothing’s changed from before. If you’d gone through with what he wanted, you’d either be dead or in prison now. You hear me?”
Once again, Elijah said nothing. Pops hardly knew the boy, but he had never seen him like this. He looked older, more severe, his lack of emotion even a little frightening. Pops realised with a sudden flash of insight that the boy reminded him of himself, five years earlier. Anger throbbed out of him. He was frightened for him.
Elijah pulled back the handle and pushed the door open. He got out, slammed it behind him and crossed the pavement to the door of the studio.
“Alright, then,” Pops said in his wake. He got out, locked the car and followed.
The studio was on the first floor of the building, above the restaurant. Pops held his thumb against the buzzer and spoke into the intercom. The lock popped open and he went inside. Pops knew the history of the place. Bizness had bought the two flats that had been here before and spent fifty thousand knocking them through into one large space. He followed the dingy flight of steps upwards, frayed squares of carpet on the treads and framed posters of BRAPPPP! hung on the walls on either side of him. They were ordered chronologically, and the pictures nearer the ground floor, before the collective discovered that popularity was inextricably tied to notoriety, even seemed a little naïve. The final poster before the door at the top of the stairs was of Bizness, standing alone, bare chested, holding a semi-automatic MAC-10 pistol in one hand and smoking a joint with the other. Pops remembered the first time he had seen the poster. He had been awed, then, a black man with power who was unafraid of putting a finger up at society’s conventions; now, he found it all predictable and depressing. There was no message there, no purpose. The power was illusory. It was all about the money.
